


Incendiary

by jeeno2



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Actors, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Crack Treated Seriously, Eventual Smut, F/M, in honor of Burn This opening this weekend
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-13
Updated: 2019-06-02
Packaged: 2019-11-16 09:51:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18092105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jeeno2/pseuds/jeeno2
Summary: “Rey,” the director begins. She sounds almost apologetic. “I should have told you earlier. This is Ben Solo.”Rey’s eyes go wide with shock.“Ben Solo?” she asks, weakly. “As in….”“As in, the theater intimacy consultant.” Ben reaches into the pocket of his black jeans and pulls out a business card. He hands it to her. “Yes. That’s me.”----------------------(In which Rey is starring in her first big Off-Broadway production and Ben Solo is the intimacy consultant brought in to save the day.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [crossingwinter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crossingwinter/gifts).



> There was an article in the [New York Times](https://www.nytimes.com/2017/06/15/theater/need-to-fake-an-orgasm-theres-an-intimacy-choreographer-for-that.html) a few years ago about an “intimacy choreographer” who works with theater productions in need of… err, choreographed intimacy. TWD being what it is, they clamored for the idea to be Reylo’d. And crossingwinter, being what SHE is, immediately tagged me in that request, sent me the article, and demanded I write the thing.
> 
> I can never deny crossingwinter anything she wants. And so here we are: a ridiculous fic that takes the idea from the NYT article, makes a few tweaks to the job description, and runs with it. ;) And I’m posting it now, in honor of “Burn This” finally opening on Friday. 
> 
> Disclaimer: my knowledge of theater is limited to the Chicago production of “Hamilton” I saw two years ago and the travelling productions of “Phantom” and “Les Mis” I saw as an impressionable teenager one thousand years ago. So this is going to be a ridiculously inaccurate fic no matter what I do. If you know more about the theater world and/or NYC than I do (which you probably do...) please proceed accordingly. <3

There’s someone new at rehearsal today.

Rey has never seen him here before. He’s standing right behind Amilyn Holdo’s director’s chair, dressed all in black and scowling. He’s tall, with broad shoulders and dark hair, and he’s just… _staring_ at her, muscular arms folded across his frankly ridiculous chest.

His brow is furrowed, and he narrows his eyes as he watches her. Like he’s trying to figure her out.

The intensity of his gaze is unnerving. Rey averts her eyes. She has to; she can’t stare at this guy while he’s staring so blatantly at _her._ She has a job to do up here.

And she has a co-star, standing right next to her on this stage, who she has to focus on.

Flustered, Rey tries to get her breathing to regulate and her heart rate to slow.

She has no idea who this guy is or why he’s here. What she _does_ know is she needs something else to be nervous about right now like she needs another hole in her head.

She has to focus. No distractions.

After what feels like an hour, but which the old clock on the wall tells Rey is really only a couple of minutes, Holdo finally takes her seat in her director’s chair, folding one long leg gracefully over the other. Her attention is split between the script in her hands and the actors on her stage. If she even notices the big hulking guy standing right behind her she shows no sign of it.

“All right, you two,” she calls out. She smiles, then—a sincere, encouraging smile; one that reaches her eyes. “And…. _action_.”

At Amilyn’s words, Armitage Hux—first-class jerk and, if she’s being honest, at least half the reason Rey decided not to stay at Juilliard for her MFA—strides purposefully across the stage. He’s dressed in the clothes he’ll be wearing in two weeks for the opening of _Incendiary,_ the last play Anakin Skywalker ever wrote: an untucked white button-down shirt, with the top few buttons undone, and dark beige chinos. And no shoes.

He’s giving Rey a look that’s supposed to be seductive. She suspects he actually _thinks_ it’s seductive. In reality, though, it just makes Hux look a bit pinched around the mouth. Or like he’s got gas.

“Come here,” he tells her in a commanding tone. Hux’s character—Mariner Randall, the newest partner at the most prestigious law firm in the fictional city where the play is set—is supposed to be a domineering jerk. That part of the role, at least, Hux has down pat. He puts his hands on his narrow hips and stares Rey down, willing her with his eyes to come to him.

Rey glares at him from her place on the stage, trying to get back into the headspace of Marcella Cummings, the beautiful, yet reticent, Harvard Law School graduate and junior associate at Mariner’s firm.

“Why should I?” Rey crosses the stage, putting as much space as possible between her and Hux. She taps into Marcella’s rage. Her fear. Her strong sense of self-preservation. And above all, her deep-rooted desire to fuck Mariner to within an inch of his life. “I have nothing more to say to you.”

“Oh, I hadn’t intended for us to _talk_ tonight, Ms. Cummings.” Hux—Mariner—sneers. He stalks across the stage purposefully, like a cat ready to pounce, and stops when he’s mere inches from where Rey is standing. He puts one pale hand on her hip and pulls her close. Rey gasps theatrically, they way they taught her to do it at Juilliard, her hands fluttering nervously, before finally coming to rest on Hux’s chest. His white shirt has even brighter white buttons on it that stand out. It’s a bit distracting. “I had something _else_ in mind entirely.”

Hux says the words on a leer, and Rey looks him right in the eye, heart thrashing wildly in her ribcage as she hopes and prays that whatever Holdo is seeing between her and Hux on stage right now will satisfy her, and convince her—and, by proxy, convince the opening night audience— that she and Hux’s character are seconds away from tearing each others’ clothes off.

But Hux can’t hold her gaze. His eyes dart over her shoulder. Down to the floor. Rey’s hands on his chest fidget, and her legs start to shake because she already knows they’re fucking it up again and they only have _two more weeks_ to get this right.

Rey hears Holdo clear her throat pointedly from offstage and then give a resigned little sigh. It tells Rey everything she needs to know.

Her heart sinks.

Fuck.

_Fuck._

“I’m so sorry, guys,” Holdo says, not unkindly. Rey pulls her hands away from Hux’s chest at the same moment he takes a giant step away from her. Rey turns to look at Holdo, who’s shaking her head. “I’m still not feeling it.” She looks back and forth between Rey and Hux. “I still don’t believe that the two of you are so desperate to have sex with each other that you’re willing to risk your careers over it.” She pauses. “Or that you even want to be in the same room.”

Hux lets out a long, put-upon sigh. “Great,” he mutters under his breath. He runs a hand through his perfectly-coiffed ginger hair. “Just great.” He turns to face Rey and stares her down. “Still struggling with the _real_ roles, I take it?”

Rey glares at him. “It’s not _my_ fault that—

He cuts her off with a shake of his head. “I knew this would be a disaster the minute you were cast.”

And without another word, Hux stalks off the stage and makes his way to his dressing room in the back.

Rey stays rooted to the spot where she stands. She buries her face in her hands, trying to take deep, calming breaths.

She’d been so excited when she was cast as Marcella Cummings four months ago. After three long years stuck in roles just a few steps above community theater, she’s finally landed a role in something big. Something _real._

Even if the general consensus among the theater community is that _Incendiary_ isn’t the legendary Skywalker’s best work, it is arguably his most famous one. Rey knows what an incredible opportunity it is to star in this production. The fact that it’s being directed by Amilyn Holdo—and playing just a short stone’s throw away from Broadway—is icing on the cake.

And now here they are, two weeks out from opening, and on the verge of complete failure.

What is she going to do if it _does_ fail?

“This might be a hopeless case,” she hears a deep voice intone, as if in response to her unspoken question. Rey looks up and sees the tall, dark-haired guy from earlier frowning down at a notepad in his hands. He’s fidgeting with a pencil between his fingers. Rey didn’t even know people still _used_ pencils. It looks positively dainty in his giant hands. He shrugs noncommittally. “I’ve seen worse, but…”

“Do you think there’s anything you can do?” Holdo is clearly talking to this guy, not to her. But she has no doubt that she’s the one being discussed. “We’re two weeks from opening night.”

The guy doesn’t reply for a long moment. He just sets down his notepad on the floor and turns his attention back to Rey. He holds her gaze, his eyes penetrating and dark, intense, as he considers her. Rey has the eerie impression that he’s evaluating not only the performance he just witnessed but _everything_ about her. Like he’s seeing through her clothes, her skin, right down to her very essence.

It makes her shiver, despite the fact that the room is stifling.

“Like I said, I’ve seen worse.” His eyes are still on Rey as he moves towards the stage. He takes the stairs leading up to it two at a time, and Rey tries not to stare, tries not to gape, at just how fucking _huge_ he is, all over. His long legs. His absolutely massive feet.

She mostly fails.

He approaches her until he’s less than a few inches from where she stands. And then he abruptly stops. He looks down at her, looming over her, dark and intense. His eyes roam over her body, taking in her face, her chest, her legs, before working their leisurely way back up again. Rey’s mouth is suddenly dry as sawdust. Who _is_ this guy?  “We’ll have to get started right away.”

“Wait,” Rey says. She holds up her hands and takes a giant step away from him. “What the hell is going on here? What, exactly, will we have to get started on right away?”

The guy snorts. “You haven’t told her?”

She turns to look at him. But he’s looking at Holdo, stony-faced, only the slightly upturned corners of his mouth giving away any hint of amusement.

Holdo closes her eyes. Shakes her head.

“Rey,” she begins, apologetically. “I should have told you earlier. This is Ben Solo.”

Rey’s eyes go wide with shock.

_No._

_Oh, no._

“Ben Solo?” she asks, weakly. “As in….”

“As in, the theater intimacy consultant.” Ben reaches into the pocket of his black jeans and pulls out a business card. He hands it to her. “Yes. That’s me.”

Rey takes the glossy business card from him and stares at it. At the name _Benjamin C. Solo_ written in elegant script. At the address of his offices, located right in the heart of the theater district.

She is shell-shocked. She is fucking _reeling_.

“When shall we begin?” Ben Solo asks.

Rey is trying hard to think of what to say to that, given that up until a few minutes ago she had no idea this was a thing that would be happening. But his eyes are back on Holdo, not on her.

“Tomorrow,” Holdo says. She rubs her hands over her face. “We don’t have any more time to waste.”

 

* * *

  

Finn, Rey’s roomate, is out tonight at a friend’s birthday party in the city. And so Rey decides to bring her laptop out into the living room, where she can spend the entire evening reclining comfortably on the sofa while she reads everything she can find online about Ben Solo.

She’s heard of him, of course. _Everyone_ who’s ever done any real theater work has heard of him. He was at Juilliard a few years before she started there, and he first made a name for himself as the guy who’d destroy sets in a fit of rage if he or anyone else he was sharing a stage with messed up a scene.

Eventually, though, he calmed down a little. By the time he was a senior, he’d become known for his smoldering looks and the insane levels of chemistry he had with anyone acting opposite him. By the time he graduated with his MFA, he’d become a legend, both in and out of Juilliard, for his ability to make an entire audience aroused just by his presence on stage.

After graduation, Ben Solo—perhaps wisely—decided to eschew the grueling actor’s life most of his classmates had chosen. He decided, instead, to monetize his unique _talent_ by renting out his services as a consultant to theater directors who needed help getting their actors to spark.

Actors like her and Hux, apparently.

Rey takes a sip from the glass of white wine she’s poured for herself and scrolls through the New York Times article about Ben Solo from last September. He was working with James Manderin and Amanda Bronda at the time, in the weeks leading up to their opening performance of _Schenectady_ on Broadway.

There’s just one photograph of Ben in the article—a black-and-white shot of him with his enormous hands on Bronda’s ass as he positions her closer to her male co-star. The photo only catches him in profile, but Rey knows it’s him all the same. At this point, after all the pictures she’s seen of him this evening, Rey would know those dark eyes and that inscrutable expression anywhere.

This interview—just like all the others she’s read tonight—leaves no doubt in Rey’s mind as to what she’ll be in store for when she shows up to rehearsal tomorrow morning.

His hands—his massive, dexterous hands—are going to be all over her.

She gulps down another swallow of wine and begins to read.

 

_xxxxxxxxxxxxx_

_Dopheld Mitaka:_ “ _Why do you enjoy this line of work? It certainly is an unusual choice for someone with your educational background.”_

 _Ben Solo_ : “ _Because it’s a challenge. Even the most talented actors can lack chemistry with the people they share the stage with. In fact, the more talented they are, the more likely it is they’ll come off like a cold, dead fish in their love scenes.”_

 _DM:_ (laughter from the crew) _Don’t you think that’s a little harsh?_

_BS: “No. I don’t think it’s harsh enough.”_

_DM: “Okay, then. Well, how would you describe your methods?”_

_BS: “Very hands-on. If you need to touch your co-star in a given scene, and it needs to be hot, and the director brings me in for guidance, I will be touching you, too. Both of you. Or, all three of you, I suppose. Depending on what kind of scene it is.”_

_DM: “Does your presence ever…. you know.  Get in the way of things?”_

_BS: “Yes, of course. That’s the whole point.”_

_xxxxxxxxxxxxx_

 

Rey closes her eyes, and before she can stop herself from doing it, she starts imagining what it’s going be like having Ben Solo’s hands on her body, manually positioning her on the stage just the way he wants her.

Feeling flustered, Rey slams her laptop shut and downs the rest of her wine in one gulp.

And then she glances at her phone and sees she missed three new texts from Holdo while she was reading.

It looks like she’s reached out to apologize.

**I’m sorry I sprung Solo on you today, Rey.**

**If it makes you feel any better, Hux wants to kill me, too.**

**But I think I made the right call. I think Solo can help us.**

Rey sighs.

 _It’s fine_ , she lies.

_I know we need the extra help_

**You’re going to be fantastic, Rey.**

**I know it.**

**No matter what happens.**

Rey closes her eyes.

She knows that she and Hux have been struggling to connect on stage. And while on some level she knows Hux is at least partly responsible for them being in this situation, she can’t help but feel it’s actually mostly her fault. She is a twenty-six-year-old woman who has had sex a total of three times in six years, and who has never had any interest in having more of it.

Partly because of this almost total lack of experience, until _Incendiary_ came along she’s steered clear of roles that incorporate any element of physicality. Because there’s acting, and then there’s feeling like a complete fraud.

But this opportunity—the opportunity to star in a Skywalker play, and the chance to work with Amilyn Holdo Off Broadway—was just too good to pass up.

But maybe she should have passed this up. Maybe this was all a mistake.

She closes her eyes and wonders if even Ben Solo can help her now.

 _I guess we’ll find out soon_ , _right?_ she texts Holdo.

_See you in the morning_

That matter settled, Rey puts down her phone.

She pours herself another glass of wine. And she goes back to her internet research.

It’s going to be a very long night.

 


	2. Chapter 2

“You look terrible.”

Rey glances up from her latte to see Finn standing right beside her. He places his messenger bag on the floor of the coffee shop and pulls up a chair at her table.

He drops down into it, setting his cappuccino on the table between them.

“Nice to see you too,” Rey huffs.

Finn puts up his hands defensively. “Not a criticism, my dear. Just… you know. An observation.” He lifts the oversized mug to his lips, blowing across the top of it to cool it down a little before taking a delicate sip. “You look like you didn’t sleep at all last night.”

“I slept.” It’s not _technically_ a lie. At about 2:30 in the morning, Rey’s brain finally shut off enough for her to doze for a few hours. Just in time for her alarm to go off and wake her up again at six.

“Clearly not enough, though.” Finn makes a circular motion beneath his eyes. “Those dark circles, babe. You look like a raccoon.”

She rolls her eyes. “Thanks.”

Finn chuckles a little and takes her hand. She lets him. “Seriously, though. Are you all right?” He interlaces their fingers and runs the pad of his thumb back and forth across the back of her hand. “I know you’re stressed about the show, but…” He pauses. “Every time I’ve seen you these past few weeks, you’ve seemed more exhausted than you were the last time. Whatever’s going on with you seems like it goes way beyond opening night jitters.”

Rey looks at him, into the kind, open face of her first and oldest friend. He graduated a year before she did, and it had been his connections in the New York theater community that got her her first auditions after graduation. And it had been Finn’s unending encouragement and support that gave her the confidence she needed to even audition for _Incendiary_ in the first place.

“I’m fine,” she lies. “It’s just nerves.” That part isn’t entirely untrue, at least. But she can’t let him know just how close _Incendiary_ is to being a complete disaster. She _can’t_ tell him that Holdo is so concerned about her performance opposite Hux that she’s gotten Ben Fucking Solo involved.

The only thing that matters to her in this world is Finn’s friendship—and his respect. She couldn’t bear the pity she knows she’d see in his eyes if she told him the truth.

But Finn doesn’t seem to believe her. Rey isn’t surprised. Despite her training as an actress—despite the fact that she basically lies to people every single day for a living—she’s never been able to lie to Finn. He takes another small sip of his drink, eyeing her over the rim of the mug. “You’d tell me if you _weren’t_ fine, right?”

Rey nods emphatically. Squeezes his hand.

“Definitely.” She tries to smile at him. “I promise.”

 

* * *

 

 

Ben Solo and Holdo are already at the Amalfi theater when Rey shows up at quarter to nine.

Solo, she sees immediately, is dressed all in black again. Instead of his black jeans from yesterday, though, he’s wearing black slacks. Instead of yesterday’s black turtleneck, he’s got on a black sweater that fits him tight and snug across his broad chest.

Maybe Ben Solo _only_ wears black. Rey’s definitely met people like that in this business. Though she doesn’t think she’ll ever stop finding it beyond strange and more than a little pretentious. For her part, she’s been drawn all her life to pretty floral patterns and bright colors. She figures life is depressing enough as it is without letting drab wardrobe choices make things worse.

Solo is sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the stage, right next to Holdo’s director’s chair, apparently oblivious to the fact that either of them are even here. He’s got the play’s script on his lap and is making small notes in the margins with the same pencil he was fiddling with yesterday. Rey can’t even begin to imagine what his notes might say—but she supposes she’s about to find out.

Whether she likes it or not.

“Good morning, Rey.”

He says it in a deep, rich baritone that makes her knees go a little weak. He glances up from the script briefly, looking almost absurdly serious for this hour of the morning, before he turns his full attention back to the pages in his lap.

“Um. Good morning.” Rey’s voice comes out reedy and thin, making her cringe. There’s just something _unsettling_ about this guy and his silent, brooding intensity. She’s pretty sure she’d feel that way even if she didn’t know the reason he’s here.

The fact that she _does_ know just makes it ten times worse.

“Now that she’s finally here, shall we begin?” Ben Solo asks Holdo the question without so much as a glance at Rey. He closes the script and sets it to the side.

“Sure,” Holdo says. She gestures towards the stage. “Go right ahead.”

Now that he has the green light, Solo looks up at Rey with eyes as dark as midnight. “Might as well take advantage of the time we have before your co-star arrives,” he says.

Rey’s eyebrows shoot up. “Wait. What?”  She pauses, confused. “Isn’t Hux supposed to be here for this?”

“Eventually, yes,” Solo confirms. “But I asked Amilyn to have him come in a little later today.”

“Why?” She’s going to be working with Solo _alone_?

He nods, like he’d expected the question. “When I start consulting on a production, I like to work with the actors individually before I work with them together.” He lifts a large thermos of coffee to his lips (he has incredible lips, Rey muses, before she even realizes she’s doing it) and takes a large swallow. Rey watches his Adam’s apple bob in his throat. “That way, I can get a handle on each actor’s strengths and weaknesses and determine what they each need to work on individually before deciding what they need to work on together.”

“So…” Rey begins, trying hard to process everything he’s telling her.

“ _So_ ,” Solo says, emphasizing the word, “We’re going to work on you, first.”

 _Those hands are going to be on my body_ , Rey thinks, feverishly. _In just a few minutes. Just him and me, on that stage._

When Rey doesn’t say anything—just stands there, staring at him like an idiot—Solo sighs, rolls his eyes, and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Look, Rey. I’m being paid too much to just stand around and watch you dither. Let’s get to it.”

His tone of voice brooks no opposition. When he nods meaningfully in the direction of the stage, Rey doesn’t even think to protest. She springs into action, climbing the stairs on rubbery legs, hoping he cannot see how badly her hands are shaking.

“I’d like to go do the scene where Mariner gets home from the office,” he tells Holdo. “I found that needed… rather a lot of work.” He turns to Rey. “I’m going to play Mariner while you, Rey, play Marcella.”

“Yes. Good,” Holdo says, nodding from her director’s chair. “Rey, does that work for you?”

“Oh,” she says, blinking at the two of them. She hadn’t realized she had a say in any of this. “Yes. I mean, of... of course.”

Internally, though, she is screaming.

_He wants to go over the scene he watched me and Hux fuck up yesterday._

_The one where we’ve got their hands on each other._

_The one where we’re supposed to_ kiss.

_Except it’s going to be me and Ben Solo up there instead of me and Hux._

She swallows, staring out into the middle distance as she tries to calm herself down.

_This is fine. This is totally, totally fine._

_I am a_ professional.

Ben pushes himself up off the floor slowly and then into a standing position, giving Rey a great view of his massive thighs as he moves. He bends over at the waist to pick up the script, and then leafs through it until he’s about two-thirds of the way through.

When he’s found the scene he’s looking for, he glances up at the stage. Rey is still staring at him and standing stock still, like a freaking potted plant, by the stairs. Nowhere close to where she’s supposed to be for this scene.

Solo scowls at her. “Well? What are you waiting for?”

 _Oh, right._ Rey quickly scurries to where Marcella is supposed to be at the beginning of this scene, trying to ignore the way her heart already feels like it’s going to burst right out of her chest.

Solo nods when she’s finally in the right place, looking at least a little more satisfied. “Good. Okay.” He strides towards the stage and quickly climbs the stairs.

Rey swallows. She can _do_ this.

“Okay,” she says.

He hasn’t brought the script up here with him. But then again, this particular scene features very little talking.

Which is, of course, is the crux of the problem.

Solo clears his throat. And then…

“Come here,” he says, starting them off, already completely in character. Solo’s voice is low, demanding, the piercing tone of it touching off a spark deep within her. He folds his arms across his broad chest and stares at her, stares _through_ her, his full lips pressed together in a tight, thin line.

“Why should I?” Rey glares at him defiantly. _I’m Marcella Cummings. I’m Marcella Cummings, the junior associate from Harvard_ . _I am talking with Mariner, the senior partner Marcella wants to fuck. Not Ben Solo, the intimacy consultant I absolutely do_ not _want to fuck._  “I have nothing more to say to you.”

At that, Ben Solo throws his head back and laughs. But there’s no joy in it. It’s a cold, hard, sharp, bark of a laugh, the sound of it almost predatory. Rey feels its chill all the way down to her bones.

“Oh, I hadn’t intended for us to _talk_ tonight, Ms. Cummings.” Ben Solo stalks across the stage, just as Hux has done every other day in rehearsal for weeks. But nothing about the way he’s moving is remotely like what Hux has been doing up here. He compels her to look at him, compels her to _want_ to look at him, just by the raw animal magnetism he evokes as effortlessly as breathing.

He puts his hand on her hip, just as Hux always does. But he _grips_ her there in a way that’s all his own. Firm, yet gentle. Patient and impatient, all at once. Rey finds it the most instinctive thing in the world to move closer to him and rest her hands on his broad chest. His shirt is black, not white like Hux’s. She cannot look away from his face.

“I had something _else_ in mind entirely,” he adds on a purr. He inclines his head towards her, and now she can feel his breath fanning sweet and warm across her lips.

She narrows her eyes at him. Her heart is racing, beating so fast her breathing is speeding up, and so hard she can feel her pulse hammering in her ears. “Like… like what?”

He doesn’t answer her question with words.

The kiss Ben Solo gives her is straight from page 201 of _Incendiary’s_ script. And yet, it’s so much more than that. It is rough and messy and impulsive, and everything Hux’s kisses haven’t been. Everything they have _never_ been, with her. She winds her fingers into his long dark hair, just the way Marcella Brigand is supposed to do on page 202. But the action is instinctive, not rehearsed, and comes as much from Rey herself as it does Marcella.

Rey whimpers a little. That’s scripted; but the answering groan Solo makes in the back of his throat curls her toes all the same.

“I’m... I’m going to fuck you tonight,” he tells her, breathless, when he pulls back from the kiss. His voice is heated and rough, like sandpaper on stone. His pupils are blown wide, his cheeks are flushed, and his already full, plump lips are even plumper now from their kisses. His tone, the words he is saying— they somehow reach inside her and take complete control. She is totally in his thrall. “I’m going to fuck you in my study, Marcella. On my desk. I’m going to peel your panties down your legs and have you in that pretty little suit you wore to court today.”

He dips down and presses a line of hot, needy kisses down her throat. She whines; it’s a desperate sound.

“Yes,” she whispers. “Yes.”

Solo kisses up along her jaw until he reaches her ear—and then he slowly, slowly slides his hands down her back until they reach her ass.  

“Good,” he growls. “Good.”

He squeezes her there, hard. God, his hands are just so fucking... _massive._ He can easily fit her entire ass in the palms of his hands. His size, intimidating from a distance, is dizzying, overwhelming, up close like this. When they’re breathing the same air. He seems to pick up on her reaction because he smirks at her, and then pulls her even closer, until their bodies are completely flush.

And that’s when she feels… _it._

Rey’s eyes fly open in surprise.

 _Oh. Oh, my_ god.

His all-black clothing must have disguised it earlier. But now that their bodies are pressed against each other there is absolutely no mistaking the fact that Ben Solo, the famous intimacy consultant whose actual fucking job it is to touch people like this every single day of the week, has an absolutely raging erection. It’s hard, and insistent—and just as massive as the rest of him. Her white cotton shirt is thin, and she can feel the heat of it, of him, through it, and all the way down to her flushed skin.

She shifts her hips back and away from him, even though that is more or less the exact opposite of what’s supposed to happen in the scene. Solo must realize she knows what’s happened because a half-second later he breaks character, too, and takes a small step back.   

He looks into her eyes. And for the first time since Rey met him yesterday he looks _terrified._

Rey tries to recover fast—she tries; she really does—and is just about to say her next line, because the show must go on, right? Ben Solo just got a massive boner from being on stage with her for five minutes, but she is a _professional_ and she can _handle_ this, and—

But before she can get out her next line, Rey is interrupted by very loud applause coming from the direction of the director’s chair.

“Wonderful!”

Rey jumps away from Ben Solo like she’s been electrocuted. For his part, Ben simply stands rooted to the spot, eyes wide, still staring at the place where Rey had just been. He turns his back to Holdo and, quick as a wink and twice as subtle, surreptitiously adjusts himself inside his pants.

Holdo is standing in front of the stage, beaming up at them. Hux must have shown up at some point too, because now he’s here, standing next to her, all starched white shirt and sour expression, looking _much_ less pleased with what he just watched than Holdo seems to be.

“Rey, that was fantastic!” Holdo takes another step towards the stage, hands clasped in front of her. “ _That_ is the energy I’ve been looking for.”  

It takes a minute for Rey to find her voice.

“Thank you, Amilyn.” She rubs the back of her neck. She can still feel the imprint of his erection, hot and hard, against her stomach. _Why did he get an erection? How could someone like him_ possibly _be turned on by someone like me? Weren’t we just… weren’t we just_ acting? “I’m glad you think it worked.”

“It more than worked.” Amilyn grins up at her. “What you were doing this time… it was electric.” She looks at Solo. “And _you_ , Ben Solo, are every bit the miracle worker everyone says you are.”

But Ben can’t look Holdo in the eye. He’s looking down at his shoes. At his fingernails. At the _Exit_ sign at the very back of the theater.

He clears his throat. “Yes, I am,” he says arrogantly, in response to Holdo’s comment. “And it’s a good thing, too—because your production needs a miracle.” His harsh words stand in sharp contrast to the _reaction_ Rey’s proximity provoked in him just a few moments before. His words are like a bucket of ice water over Rey’s head. And a much-needed reality check.

Ben Solo looks at Rey out of the corner of his eye before turning his attention back to Holdo and continuing. “I have some thoughts, some suggestions, that I’d like to share with everyone based on the scene I just did with Rey. But… but I need to go back to my office for a few hours first.” He pauses. Clears his throat again. “I should go over my notes before I work one on one with Mr. Hux this afternoon. If... that’s okay with you?”

Solo gives Holdo something that Rey thinks is supposed to be a smile. But it looks much more like a grimace. Does Ben Solo ever _actually_ smile? She can’t imagine it.

Holdo doesn’t answer him right away. She looks a little surprised by the request. “Oh. I mean… certainly.” She turns to Hux, whose eyes have been darting back and forth between Solo and Rey during this whole exchange. “Armitage, why don’t we run your monologue in the second act while we’re waiting?”

Hux shoots Rey what might be the dirtiest look he’s ever given her. Which, truth be told, is saying something. “Fine.” He smirks at her. “We all know she’s the one who needs the help with the sexy stuff anyway.”

Rey looks over at Ben; but he’s looking everywhere but at her.

“Good,” he says. He makes his way to the stairs and practically runs down them. “I’ll be back soon.”

Rey watches him, wordlessly, as he hurries down the aisle and he leaves the theater.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't even know you guys


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Work and travel are getting a bit busier for me these next few weeks, which is part of why updates are slowing down a little. That said, this story will be wrapped up by the end of April for sure. <3

When Rey finally gets to Amilyn Holdo’s building after spending nearly an hour on the subway, she stops just outside the front entrance so she can get one last look at herself before showtime.

She pulls out the compact she keeps in her purse and opens it, peering critically at her reflection in the little mirror.

It’s a warm night, even though it’s late September and it really shouldn’t be this hot anymore, and Rey’s a little overheated in her jeans and short-sleeved t-shirt. Fortunately, though, her makeup doesn’t look too much the worse for wear. The expensive lipstick and mascara she bought last week as a treat for herself seems to be as long-lasting as advertised. So does the concealer. 

She holds the mirror at arm’s length and examines her hair which, while more windswept than it was when she got on the subway in Brooklyn, isn’t  _ so  _ windswept that whoever’s going to be handling this photoshoot won’t be able to fix it if they have to.

When she goes to open the building’s front door, an elderly doorman in a brass-buttoned waistcoat beats her to it. He pulls it open for her with a polite smile. 

“Good evening, miss.” 

But Rey is too nervous right now to do anything but nod back at him.

Amilyn Holdo’s building is tall and elegant. Just like her. But unlike Holdo, a woman who exudes warmth and sincerity, the building where she lives feels  _ cold _ somehow, despite the hot day. The foyer is all chrome, glass, and hard edges. Something about being in this space makes Rey shiver despite the heat.

She finds the elevator bank without much difficulty and presses the silver button on the wall with the  _ up _ arrow. While she waits, she slides her phone from her purse and reads Finn’s reassuring texts one more time.

**Just remember--this is all a part of it**

**It just means the producers are excited and want to promote you**

**The New York Times is always a good sign :)**

Rey sighs and pockets her phone. 

She closes her eyes, trying to calm her nerves.

Finn keeps telling her she’s going to be fine. But  _ Ben Solo _ is going to be at this photoshoot, to make certain she and Hux exude the right kind of chemistry for the photographer. To make sure she and Hux are sexy enough—or whatever it is they’re supposed to be.

Rey would have been nervous about tonight even without Solo here. But his presence will just make everything worse. It’s been over ten hours since he ran out of the theater after kissing her. She’s had a full day of work and rehearsal since then. Even so, Rey hasn’t been able to think of much else besides how it had felt, his body pressed up against hers on that stage. His hands on her hips. His lips on her neck. 

And his cock, hard as a rock and impossible to ignore, pressing hot and needy against her stomach. 

It had been easy enough to avoid Solo at the theater when he finally came back three hours later, wearing dark sunglasses and the sourest expression Rey has ever seen on another person’s face. He’d spent most of the afternoon working one-on-one with Hux while Rey was left alone to go over her lines in her dressing room. But tonight, it’s going to be the three of them in close quarters.  _ All _ three of them. Solo will, ostensibly, be putting his hands all over both of them in front of Holdo and the photographer and anyone else the newspaper may be bringing along for this.

Rey doesn’t know how she’s going to get through it. How she’s going to get through  _ any _ of this, if she has to work this closely with someone she can’t get out of her head.

After what feels like a very long time, the elevator finally arrives on the ground floor. It dings, cutting into Rey’s dark musings. The door slides open for her and she steps inside. 

When the elevator doors open again a few moments later on the fifty-third floor, Rey is greeted by her director, waiting for her in the hallway. Holdo is wearing dark jeans that fit her so well they might as well have been made for her, and a silver cowl-neck sweater that picks up the pink highlights in her hair perfectly.

“Rey,” she says, smiling. Her welcoming voice cuts through Rey’s anxiety like a knife. Faint classical music is coming from the apartment at the far end of the hall. Holdo’s apartment, Rey guesses, remembering how much her director loves Debussy. 

Holdo takes her arm and walks her in the direction of the music. When she opens the door to her loft, Rey’s jaw drops.

Between the two of them, Rey and Finn can only just afford the rent on their modest two-bedroom Brooklyn apartment. While she figured Amilyn Holdo would have a nicer place than what she’s used to, Rey couldn’t have prepared herself for what she’s seeing now. She’s standing in the middle of an enormous loft, with a breezy, wide open floor plan. The ceilings must be at least twelve feet high. The entire back side of the loft is lined with large floor-to-ceiling windows that, during the day at least, probably fill this entire space with natural light. It’s after sunset right now, so Rey can’t quite make out what’s outside those windows. But she knows enough about this part of Manhattan to know Amilyn Holdo must have at least a partial view of Central Park right from her living room.

Rey can’t imagine what it must cost to live here.

“Can I get you something to drink?” Holdo’s brought her over to a small bar near the back of the apartment. Several other people are already milling around the room, and Rey realizes, with a pang of guilt, that she’s the last person to arrive. She swallows down a hard lump of anxiety she just doesn’t have the mental space for right now. “Chardonnay, Rey?”

“Oh. Yes, please.” A glass of wine actually sounds  _ amazing _ right now. While Holdo pours the wine, Rey asks, “There’s something here for me to change into, right?” 

Holdo hadn’t provided many details about this shoot. The Times contacted her rather last minute so Holdo had only had time to convey the basics. Which were: there would be a photoshoot to promote the play tonight at 8pm, at her loft, for the New York Times’ Arts and Culture section. 

Rey guessed she wouldn’t be expected to bring something from her own wardrobe for this. But she’s never done anything like this before, and now that she’s actually here in this swanky apartment she suddenly feels very awkward about her decision to show up in jeans and a t-shirt.

“Of course.” Holdo hands Rey a glass of Chardonnay and gives her a warm smile. “Costume has brought something for you that’s perfect, I think.”

Rey’s shoulders sag in relief. “Is it what I’ll be wearing in the show?” 

Holdo shakes her head. “No. It’ll be similar in theme to Marcella’s wardrobe in the second act. A blousy white top. Comfortable slacks. And boots.” She raises her glass to her mouth and takes a delicate sip. “But no, not the exact same thing. That would be like giving the audience something for free, you know?”

Rey nods. “Right.”

Holdo waves her hand in the direction of a vaguely familiar young blonde woman standing with a man Rey has never seen before. The photographer, maybe? “You remember Kaydel, right? She’ll be taking care of your clothes and makeup.” She pauses, and takes another sip of wine. “But Ben Solo wants to talk with you first. He told me it was important.” 

Rey nearly chokes on her drink. “He… he  _ does _ ?” She’d assumed she had at least another thirty minutes or so to figure out what the hell she was going to say to him the next time they saw each other. Fuck.  _ Fuck.  _ “What’s so important that it has to happen before I get changed?”

“I’m not sure,” Holdo says. If she realizes Rey is on the verge of a full-fledged freakout she doesn’t show it. “I’m guessing he wants to go over his notes from earlier? He didn’t get a chance to talk with you again after your scene.” She glances at Rey, and then gestures towards the other end of the living room. “He’s over there, so why not ask him yourself.”

She finds him leaning up against the faux fireplace, dressed all in black again and looking more than mildly irritated with his surroundings. He’s cradling a glass of something that looks a lot like scotch in his massive hands. He’s with Hux who, for his part, looks happier and more animated than Rey has ever seen him. He’s gesturing wildly with his right hand as he tells Solo whatever it is he’s telling him, holding a cocktail with an umbrella in it in his left.

Rey’s heart starts up an uncomfortable little skip-hop when she sees the two of them talking together: the asshole she’s struggling to connect with on stage, and the intense, abrupt man who’s been hired to help her figure out how to do it.

Who happened to get an erection when he touched her earlier, immediately before he literally ran away. 

Every instinct in Rey’s body is screaming at her to run away too, and to put as much distance between herself and these two men as she can. But she can’t. She knows that. This is her job. She is starring in  _ Incendiary _ , which is in itself a dream come true.

There’s no point putting this off any longer. 

And so she takes a big sip from her glass of Chardonnay for some last-minute liquid courage and strides up to their quiet corner.

“Hi,” she says.

Two heads—one ginger, the other dark—turn in her direction. But the looks they give her couldn’t be more different. Hux’s expression, which just a moment ago had been animated and happy, has settled into something much closer to seething rage. And Solo’s eyes have gone round as saucers, reminding Rey of that old expression about deer and headlights.

“Rey,” Solo says. His voice sounds strange. It’s different, somehow—softer—than it had been yesterday, when he’d first introduced himself. “Can I… um.” He swallows. His jaw works. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”

Rey nods. “Sure.” She tries to smile, though she doesn’t think she quite manages it. “Holdo said you wanted to talk. So...” She takes another gulp of Chardonnay. ”So, I went looking for you.”

Solo nods. “Right. Holdo.” He pauses. “Yes. Thank you.” 

Rey folds her arms in front of her and tries to force her heart rate to slow. “So. What did you want to talk about?”

Solo’s eyes dart meaningfully to the side, where Hux is still staring daggers at Rey. “Alone,” he clarifies. “I want to speak with you alone.”

_ Oh _ .

“Why?” What does he have to say to her that Hux can’t be here for?

The look Solo gives her in that moment is pure desperation. And completely unexpected. It disarms her almost completely.

He doesn’t answer her question.

“Please,” he says instead, on a very low voice. His voice cracks on the single word. Something about the tone he’s using and the look he’s giving her causes something to break, to melt, inside of her.

She shrugs, feigning nonchalance. But her palms are sweating, her heart is now galloping a mile a minute, and she wonders if this is what a panic attack feels like.

“Sure,” she says. Like it makes no difference to her where they do this.

He takes her arm, and she allows him to steer her out of the room. 

 

* * *

 

 

By the time they make it out onto Holdo’s balcony, the sun has dropped completely below the horizon, though it’s still much hotter outside than it really needs to be. The view from up here is astounding, the lights coming from people’s windows showing up as little pinpricks off in the distance.

She and Solo stand there, side by side, for what feels like a very long time, leaning over the railing a little and looking out over the city. They are silent for  _ so _ long that eventually, Rey starts to wonder exactly what the hell he brought her out here for.

She’s about to ask him exactly that when he beats her to it.

“I’m... sorry.”

He’s still looking out into the distance over the balcony, not facing her. But the unexpected tone of his voice—earnest, wistful, a little vulnerable—nearly makes Rey drop her wine glass.

She waits for him to continue. To clarify what it is, precisely, he’s sorry for. But he doesn’t.

“For… for what?” she prompts.

Solo takes a deep breath before continuing.

“For…. earlier today.” He shakes his head. “I mean… I’m not apologizing for… for... um.” He pauses, and then drains the rest of his scotch in one swallow. He clears his throat. “I’m not apologizing for reacting the way I did physically, on stage. With you, earlier today. That…  _ that _ sort of thing can be a natural occurrence for many actors involved in intimate scenes.” He pauses. “Based on what I’ve observed, anyway.”

Rey’s eyes go wide. Based on what he’s  _ observed _ ? “Okay.”

“Yeah.” He nods. “I mean, for me it’s…  _ not _ a usual thing. At all.” He runs a hand through his dark, wavy hair. The light from the city illuminates him from behind and casts half his face in shadow. “It’s my job to do what we did today on stage, and it was incredibly unprofessional for  _ me _ of all people to not only… to not only  _ react _ the way that I did, but then to run off immediately afterward like a terrified thirteen-year-old boy.”

He trails off, clearly incredibly uncomfortable. And he’s sweating. From the heat, probably. Or possibly from nerves. Rey watches as a drop of perspiration rolls down his cheek and along his jaw. 

It has to be eighty degrees outside with a late August night’s humidity. And here he is, wearing a black turtleneck and black jeans. He must be absolutely broiling.

Before Rey can tell herself this is an absolutely insane thing to do, she asks: “Why do you always wear black?”

He blinks at her for a long moment and takes a small, involuntary step back. Whatever he expected her to say in response to what he just told her, it wasn’t this.

Fair enough, really.

“I’m sorry, what?”

She gestures meaningfully to his clothing. “It’s just that it’s so hot right now. I can’t imagine wearing all black tonight. Don’t you… you know.” She shrugs. “Don’t you have anything to wear that isn’t  _ black?” _

Solo’s eyes go wide. He looks completely bewildered. A little drunk, even. “I mean… I happen to  _ like _ black.”

His shoulders are up, and he’s standing in what Rey recognizes as a defensive posture. But she’s too wound up and on edge, and now that she’s started in on his fucking outfits, she can’t seem to stop. “But don’t you think it’s a little douchey to only wear black?”

His eyebrows shoot up. “ _ Douchey _ ?”

Just then, Hux opens the door to the balcony.

“They’re waiting for us.” His eyes are narrowed as he stares at them. “They’re ready.”

Hux turns on his heels and walks back into Holdo’s apartment without bothering to close the door behind him.

As they make their way back inside, Rey can hear Solo muttering, sullenly, under his breath. But she cannot make out what he’s saying.

 

* * *

 

 

The blouse Kaydel picked for Rey to wear for the photoshoot fits perfectly. So do the slacks and the boots. 

Rey takes a moment to admire herself in the full-length mirror in Holdo’s master bathroom. She looks good in these clothes. She looks breezy. Confident.

She looks  _ bold _ .

Rey closes her eyes and takes several deep breaths to try and center herself, so she can get back into character.

Hux is already waiting for her by the time she makes it to where the photographer’s set up by Holdo’s living room windows. Hux is dressed all in black for this, which is such delicious irony Rey has to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from bursting out laughing.

“Okay,” the photographer says, nodding, once Rey arrives. “Good. You’re here. Armitage, I want you kneeling for this photo.”

Hux’s eyes go wide with surprise. “Kneeling?” he scoffs.

“Yes,” the photographer says. If he takes offense at, or even notices, Hux’s disrespectful tone he shows no sign of it. “I want you kneeling at Marcella’s feet.” He nods once to give emphasis to his words and then snaps a quick picture of Rey before continuing. “I want to subvert the play’s overt power dynamic in these photographs.” Another quick picture, this time of the two of them together. “This play is all about sex and power. You know that, the audience knows that. The readers of the New York Times know that.  What I want these pictures to do is to make everyone  _ feel _ that dynamic. Not just know it. And then, I want to make people question what it is they think they know about sex and power in the first place.” 

He holds his camera up at eye level again and snaps another few shots faster than Rey can draw breath. 

“So…” Rey begins, trying to see where he’s going with this. “While Hux is kneeling at my feet, what am I doing?”

The photographer nods. “Good question.” He makes a sliding motion with his hands, indicating that he wants her to move a few paces to the left. “Stand next to Armitage, please. Yes; just like that.” He snaps another picture. “And then, Armitage—I want you holding her leg. I want your cheek resting against it, and, Rey—I want your hand on his shoulder.” He pauses. “I want the pose to be one of submission. I want a powerful man brought to heel by the woman he’s infatuated with.”

To Hux’s credit, once the photographer gives his explanation he seems to accept his reasoning. He drops the scowl and gets down on his knees.

“Like this?” he asks.

The photographer snaps some more photos. “Yes. Yes, that’s good.” He looks at Rey. “Rey, I want you looking at the camera. Look sultry. Look  _ powerful _ .” 

She drops a hand to Hux’s shoulder, just like the photographer asked her to do. Hux flinches a little at the contact and  _ Jesus fuck _ , could he be any less professional about this? Rey closes her eyes, tries to center herself again, and squeezes his shoulder as hard as she can.

“Hey,” Hux spits. “That hurt.”

“Okay. Stop, stop.” Solo is standing about twenty feet away from the shoot, but his loud, booming voice commands the attention of everyone in the room. He’s staring at both of them, at Hux and at her, clearly trying to fight back absolute disgust. “This, right here— this is not at all what Jonesy has asked you to do.”

Without another word, Solo strides over to where they’re standing. He puts his hand on top of the one resting on Hux’s shoulder, massaging her knuckles with the pad of his thumb. 

_ Fuck _ , it feels good. His hand is warm, and strong, and...

“Relax,” he instructs on a low growl. His voice is right in her ear. She closes her eyes and bites her lip, and…

God. Why does his voice  _ do  _ things to her? 

“You want to  _ fuck _ this man, Rey,” Solo continues. “Okay? Not beat him at chess.” 

He kneels down beside Hux. His disgusted look only grows. “And  _ you _ \--”

Solo trails off, and Rey does not miss the sharp inhalation of breath that follows after he carefully, carefully positions Hux’s cheek exactly where he wants it on her upper thigh.

“You’d think you’d never set foot on a stage before,” Solo mutters. “This is fucking  _ Incendiary _ , Hux. Not rocket science.” He moves Hux’s hands so that they’re a little higher up on her thigh, then positions his head so that his eyes are downcast, on the floor. “Submissive, okay?  _ Submissive.” _ He steps back and looks directly at Rey before saying, in a hoarse voice: “The only thing you want in your pathetic, miserable life is to do exactly what this woman tells you to do.”

Hux rearranges himself a little, muttering under his breath as he tries to follow Solo’s instructions. But Rey is barely even aware he’s there. She’s looking at Solo, and Solo is looking right back at her, with so much heat, so much intensity, it feels like she’s about thirty seconds away from bursting into flames.

“Ok! Yes!” The photographer sounds very happy now, camera clicking away. “Perfect.  _ Perfect _ . Yes. Okay, now, look up at the camera, both of you.” 

He snaps the photos, and Rey does her best to ignore everything and everyone in the room other her costar. But it doesn’t matter. No matter what she does, Rey can feel Solo’s eyes on her the entire time, burning right through her.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone still remembers this story, here is the VERY VERY BELATED chapter 4. My only excuse is Game of Thrones really messed me up pretty good this season and it took me a while to write it out of my system. <3
> 
> If you're still around and still reading, thank you so much for your patience.

_ “Stop moving,” Ben instructs, his lips flush with her cunt, as her body writhes, involuntarily, on the bed beneath him. His large hands tighten like a vise on her upper thighs. Constraining her. “I need you to stop moving so I can do what I want to give you what you need.” _

_ Rey tries to do what he’s asking her. She really does. But the way it feels when his tongue is on her clit, circling it slowly, like he has all the time in the world to make her fall apart, is unlike anything she has ever experienced before. It’s like an electric current through her bloodstream every time he touches her body.  _

_ It’s all she can do not to jump out of her skin at every jolt. _

_ “I’m trying,” Rey whines. But she doesn’t  _ want _ to stop moving. She wants to grind her cunt, hard, against his face. She wants to grab him by the shoulders and pull him inside her so deep she doesn’t know where she ends and he begins.  _

_ But more than anything, she wants him to make her come. She wants him to make her come so hard she forgets her own name. _

_ And so she tries to do as she was told. She tries to hold still, digging her fingertips into the mattress to ground herself. Her fists grip the sheets so hard her knuckles go white. “Please, Ben--” _

_ He growls again, apparently satisfied. And he gives her what she needs, finally. Two huge fingers thrust roughly inside her as his tongue starts moving again, tasting her, licking broad, purposeful stripes along her slit that are so deliberate, so thorough, Rey can already feel her grip on reality start to unravel. She glances down, and sees his free hand gripping his cock so tight the sight of it rips a groan from her throat without her realizing it. _

_ “Please,” she begs again. “Ben,  _ please. _ I need more.” He complies immediately, his tongue speeding up as the fingers inside her curl upwards.  _

_ A silent scream tears through her as she comes, her back arching off the mattress as she-- _

 

* * *

 

Rey is woken abruptly by her phone, buzzing loudly on her nightstand with a series of incoming texts.

She groans and pulls her pillow over her head. It’s already getting light outside, which means she probably needs to get up soon. But last night was another night of too-little sleep. She didn’t even get home from the photoshoot until nearly eleven. By the time she actually got into bed, her body was buzzing with so much nervous energy from the photoshoot and the weird interactions she’d had with Ben Solo, that sleep was impossible until well after two in the morning.

To say nothing of the dreams that plagued her during the precious few hours she  _ did _ sleep. The unbidden image of Ben Solo, kneeling on the floor beside her bed, his face buried between her thighs, will be burned into her memories for the rest of her life, probably. Despite the fact that the things she dreamed about last night have never actually happened in reality.

And never  _ will _ happen in reality. 

She has to see him again today. In rehearsal. And every day until the play opens, probably.

She groans again. 

_ Fuck. _

This is just what she needs.

As Rey lies in bed, willing her heart rate to slow down and contemplating just how much she hates her life right now, her phone buzzes again with yet another text. And then again, with another.

With a loud grunt of frustration, Rey grabs her phone and fiddles with it until she’s turned on the  _ do not disturb _ setting. She can show up to rehearsal a little late today. It’s not like they can start without her. And whoever is texting her can wait another forty-five minutes for her to get back to them. 

She throws the phone across her bedroom. It lands on the rug by the room door with a loud  _ thunk _ . 

She rolls over, punches her pillow a few times, and tries to go back to sleep.

 

* * *

 

 

Rey waits until after she’s taken a hot shower, blown her hair dry, and made herself a cup of strong coffee to read her texts.

When she does, she nearly drops her phone.  

The first is from Finn, letting her know he was spending the night at Poe’s and wouldn’t be coming home.

The next fifteen are from Holdo. 

The texts that woke her up an hour ago are, to Rey’s surprise, from Ben Solo. Rey didn’t even think he had her number. Then again, given what Holdo’s texts are about, it’s probably only logical he’d have it now.

Rey sits down heavily at her kitchen table, feeling stupid and shell-shocked. She runs a shaky hand through her hair as she scrolls, one more time, through Holdo’s messages.

_ Hux broke his right leg in three places stepping off the subway last night. _

_ Spent the night in the hospital  _

_ Surgery today _

_ The doctors are placing a rod in his leg _

_ Very unlikely he’ll be able to perform _

_ Text me once you’ve gotten this pls _

She scrolls through Ben Solo’s texts next. They’re abrupt and to-the-point, just like he is. Her stomach does an odd sort of flip as she reads his words, but she doesn’t have the time or the energy to unpack that right now.

_ Just got off the phone with Holdo. Urgent meeting at the theater this morning with you, me, and her.  _

_ 9 a.m. See you there. _

If Hux is having a rod placed in his leg, he’ll likely be out for the duration of their run. They’re going to have to bring in Snap, Hux’s understudy. He’s a decent enough actor in his own right, but he’s only acted opposite Rey a handful of times. 

They’ll probably have to hold god only knows how many extra rehearsals now in the few days they have left before the play opens.

Rey takes a giant gulp of her coffee before returning Holdo’s texts. She has a feeling she’s going to need a shit ton of caffeine to make it through the day ahead. 

 

* * *

 

 

Rey doesn’t think she’s ever seen someone look more irritated than Ben Solo does when she gets to the theater an hour later. 

Which is saying something, really, given how high a bar for  _ irritated _ he’s already set in her presence. Despite that, he’s actually changed up his look a little today. Much to Rey’s surprise. He’s actually wearing a  _ grey _ sweater today--and _ navy _ slacks--rather than dressing himself head to toe all in black like he has every other time she’s seen him.

It makes him look a little softer around the edges, somehow. Which is kind of a weird thing to think, actually, given that the look on his face and his body language both make it abundantly clear he’d rather be just about anywhere else.

“There’s no understudy,” he says bitterly, when she sits down in one of the folding chairs in front of the stage. No  _ hello _ . No  _ good morning _ . No  _ sorry if I was a little weird at the party, _ or  _ sorry I showed up totally unexpected in a bunch of hot sex dreams last night. _

No pleasantries at all. Just…abrupt. To the point.

Just like he’d been in her dreams.

When she doesn’t respond to what he’s said he starts just… _ staring _ at her. Rey finds she has to look away, hoping beyond hope that she isn’t blushing right to the roots of her hair. 

She clears her throat and tries to calm her breathing. Focus on what he’s just told her.

“That’s…that’s not true.” She glances up at him out of the corner of her eye, and then looks away again when she sees he’s still staring intently at her. “Hux and I--we both have understudies.” 

“Solo’s right, Rey. Unfortunately.” Holdo is striding into the theater now, clutching a venti cup of something from Starbucks in her right hand. “Or at least, he’s partially right.”

“What do you mean he’s partially right?” That doesn’t make any sense. “Snap has been here for half our rehearsals. He’s been going over things on his own time…” Rey shakes her head. And then her eyes go wide as realization dawns. “Are you saying…are you telling me Snap’s not able to perform, either?”

“Unfortunately, that’s exactly what I’m telling you,” Holdo says. She presses her lips together into a tight, thin line. She looks pissed. “His boyfriend just proposed, apparently. They’re in Vienna celebrating. When I told Snap he had to come back for the opening he said their tickets were non-refundable and him being here in time was impossible.”

“Oh,  _ shit _ ,” Rey breathes. She runs her hands through her hair and lets out a long, low breath. She’s starting to panic, and  _ fuck _ , she really doesn’t want Ben Solo to see her panicking. She doesn’t really know why; she just doesn’t. “He’s…but Snap’s not supposed to leave town like that right before the show opens!”

“No. He isn’t,” Holdo agrees. She sits down in the chair opposite Rey and takes a long drink from her coffee. She sighs, looking more tired than Rey has ever seen her. “I am well aware of that.”

“But…but what are we going to  _ do _ ?” Rey tries to keep her rising panic out of her voice but doesn’t quite manage it. Her mind is reeling.  _ She _ is reeling. “Do we...postpone the opening?” Tickets for the opening have already been sold. Programs have already printed. If there isn’t anyone who can be Mariner they’ll have to cancel regardless, but there will be egg on  _ everyone’s _ faces. _ Fuck.  _ Fuck. “Is there...time to get another person in here?”

“Yes. There’s time.” Ben’s voice is  _ too  _ loud in this quiet space. And he sounds absolutely furious. He’s standing in front of the stage, looking even more imposing than he usually does, arms folded across his broad chest, and it takes everything in Rey’s power to keep her eyes trained on his face, and not to let them trail down his generously-proportioned body. He’s standing so close to her.  _ Too  _ close to her. “There’s me.”

“Wait.  _ What?”  _ Rey feels like she’s been drugged. Nothing anyone is saying makes any sense to her right now. “What are you talking about? You’re...” She trails off. Shakes her head. “What are you saying?”

Ben Solo lets out a huff of annoyance. He pinches the bridge of his nose before answering her. “I…know the role really well.” He scrubs a large hand over his face, and sighs. “Really,  _ really _ well. The playwright has been an incredibly influential part of my life, for my  _ entire _ life.” He pauses. “For better or worse.”

“Anakin Skywalker has been an influential part of everyone’s lives,” Rey points out, not fully understanding what he’s trying to say, or why he’s offering to step into a role at the last minute in a play he’s made pretty clear from the beginning he doesn’t much care for. “For actors anyway.”

“Not like he has been for me.”  _ Drop it _ , the look he’s giving her now and his rigid body language all but shout. “Trust me. There is no one better able to take on the role of Mariner this late in the game than me.”

Rey swallows, trying as hard as she can not to panic. 

Acting in this role opposite Hux was one thing.

But...acting it opposite Ben Solo?

_ His hands on her hips, his face between her thighs, holding her down on the bed as he devours her _ ...

“Rey.” Holdo is looking at her with an expression Rey can’t quite read. “I’ve been over it and over it in my mind. There’s literally no one else.” She shakes her head. “Not on notice this short.” 

Rey swallows. “ _ No one  _ else? Really?”

“Sorry,” Ben Solo says. His voice still has a bitter edge to it but his eyes… his eyes just look tired. “Believe me, I’m not any happier about this than you are.”

“But… but what about your business?” Rey asks, stupidly. “Your… your other clients? There are going to be  _ so  _ many rehearsals, and...”

He shrugs. “It’s only until Snap is able to come back to the U.S. right? So, like-- what?” He looks at Holdo. “One week of performances? Two?”

“Snap said he’d get back to me as soon as he can with his travel information,” Holdo says. “But I think it’s reasonable to think he’ll be back before the end of our run.”

Solo looks back at Rey. “There we are, then. I can fill in for a few weeks. Or however long it is. In the meantime, my clients will wait for me.” He laughs a little. But it’s a bitter sound. “It’s not like there’s anyone else they can go to for the kind of work I do for them.”

This cannot be happening. “But--”

“Rey.” He steps closer to her, until he’s standing so close to her chair he’s practically towering over her. She looks up at him. Into his eyes. She can feel her pulse already start to race, and they haven’t even shared a stage with each other for real yet. “It’s me or nothing.”

“Rey,” Holdo says. She sounds almost apologetic. “I’m not sure what your issue is here. But I’m afraid you don’t have a choice in this.” She stands from her chair, and walks over to Solo. “Solo is going to be our new Mariner.”

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me on twitter at [jeenonamit](https://twitter.com/jeenonamit/)!  
> Or on tumblr, also at [jeenonamit](https://jeenonamit.tumblr.com/).


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